A Perfect Storm by Lori Foster Page A

A slight frown in place, he half turned toward her. “Want
a beer?”
    She wrinkled her nose. “No. My
father used to swill those things like crazy.”
    “It bothers you?” He sat forward
as if to take the bottle away.
    Arizona stopped him. “It
doesn’t. Actually, I kind of like the smell, just not the taste.”
    After gauging the truth in her
words, he nodded. “Something else, then?”
    “No, thanks. I already cleaned
my teeth.” Brushing a hand over the soft material of his couch, she said,
“Am I sleeping here?”
    Seconds ticked by again. He
sounded hoarse when he said, “Here at my house, yes.”
    “I meant here, on the
couch.”
    “I have a guest room you can
use. I would have put the laptop there, but the case was wet. I can move
your things in there now, if you want.”
    The idea of using the guest room
didn’t appeal to her. She wasn’t really a guest so much as an intrusion. And
the idea of being closed up…she fought off a shiver.
    Before she could figure out how
to explain her reservations, he glanced at his watch. “You ready to turn in
already?”
    “Not really.” Dragging a throw
off the back of his couch, she slouched down against the arm and stretched
her legs out toward him. She stopped short of letting her feet bump his hip.
“Mind if I just get comfortable here for now?”
    “Not at all.” He handed her a
plump throw pillow. “Make yourself at home.” After a long hesitation,
Spencer tucked the throw up and over her feet. “I mean that, Arizona. Help
yourself to anything you need or want.”
    “Thanks.” She bunched the pillow
up at her side. “So what’s on the boob tube?”
    Bemused, he glanced at the TV
and then back to her. “Old MMA highlights. Did you want me to change it to
something else?”
    “This is good. I like the
fights.” Mixed martial arts fascinated her.
    Sounding more like himself, he
asked, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
    “Because you already know me,
that’s why.” She watched for a moment and became curious about his interest
in the sport. “Do you have a favorite fighter?”
    “A few.” His big hand came to
rest casually on her foot. “If you’re in a talkative mood…”
    Heart racing from his touch—on
her foot, for crying out loud—Arizona shrugged. “Sure.”
    He turned down the volume on the
television. “Then let’s talk about our plans for tomorrow.”
    What a buzzkill. She groaned. “I
guess you’re going to insist?”
    He hesitated. “You know we need
to coordinate.”
    Yeah, they did. To get
comfortable, she turned to her back with her knees bent under the throw, her
head on the pillow, and peered down the length of the couch at him. “We’ll
arrive separately, you in your truck, me by bus so that we can leave
together in one vehicle afterward.” She cautioned him, “Make sure you park
away from the entrance, so no one will see us together
afterward.”
    Deadpan, he said,
“Naturally.”
    “I’ll go in first and grab a
seat at the bar. Say, five or ten minutes later, you can come in and sit at
a table.”
    “Why don’t I sit at the
bar?”
    “Because I’ve already scoped out
the place, and that’s where I sat before.” She rolled her shoulder. “It’s
where I need to be to draw their attention. You can watch over things more
easily, without being noticed, from the eating area.”
    He didn’t look happy about it,
but he agreed. “I’m not going to wait that long before coming in,
though.”
    Why did he sound annoyed
already? “So come in earlier, then. Just be discreet.”
    His thumb moved over the arch of
her foot, nearly stopping her heart. “This isn’t my first rodeo,
honey.”
    She wasn’t his honey, but… “What
are you doing?”
    “What?”
    She nodded at her
feet.
    As if he hadn’t been aware of
the touch himself, he looked down at his hand and then stroked with his
thumb again. “This?” He drew both her feet up to his thigh. “You’re
tense.”
    She was, but she thought